After Henry
by Lennie2
Summary: Set during and immediately after 'Abyssinia Henry.' Radar struggles to come to terms with Henry's death - can Hawkeye help him. Slashy.
1. Default Chapter

  
  
This is my first piece of MASH fic so be kind! I admit I am not too up to date on all the terms - like for example names of places. This fic begins at the end of 'Abyssinia Henry' and continues straight after, before the fourth season begins as it were. I have the next chapter written but would love feedback so I know how I am doing. Author: Elanor  
Pairing: Hawkeye / Radar  
Rating: PG this chapter  
Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to anything and I am making no  
profit from this story.  
Archive - yes please! 

Radar shuffled his papers and hesitated at the office door, nervously hopping from foot to foot. Taking a deep breath he pushed open the door and scuttled over to the filing cabinet, resolutely hiding his face from the rest of the room with the folder he was carrying. He quickly filed the papers according to his own idiosyncratic system and jammed the drawer closed. He steadfastly kept his eyes closed on the way out and immediately tripped over the waste bin, sending himself and the contents flying. Muttering one of Hawkeye's curses he bungled the contents back in the bin.

Henry Blake's Japanese doll rolled at his feet and he picked it up, cupping it gently. He sat back against the cabinet and reluctantly lifted his eyes to survey the room: Colonel Blake's office, now sanitised to resemble every other colonel's office. The notice board was cleared of the masterpieces coloured in by Henry's children, the desk (not oak and not an antique) was clean and tidy, scrubbed of coffee rings, the in and out trays empty. Even Blake's glass cabinet stood devoid of its usual liquid inhabitants. Blinking back tears, Radar dusted off the Japanese doll affectionately, the contact seeming to bridge the gap between him and the man who had been his superior officer and surrogate father all rolled into one.

Quite at home talking to inanimate objects like teddy bears and the radio, Radar addressed the doll, "Oh, don't worry. I know you'll miss him – I miss him too – but you mustn't be angry with him for leaving you behind." He gulped and scrambled to his feet. He carried the Japanese doll to his cot and sat her next to his teddy bear, cranking up a watery smile for the pair, lest they should feel gloomy.

"Everything's going to be okay," he said, giving the doll one final pat – and instantly the premonition hit him. He lost his balance and fell heavily to the ground, the doll gripped between his fingers. He took a ragged, deep breath and fumbled for the telephone before it rang, listening dumbfounded to the news he already knew.

Blinded by the vision and needing to be near living human beings rather than at the bottom of the sea with a meatballed corpse that had once been his friend and mentor, Radar ran for the O.R..

Ignoring Frank's hysterical order for him to return to his table, and Trapper's concerned inquiry, Hawkeye pushed past nurses and orderlies on his way out, his fingers dripping blood from some kid's spleen. He found Radar grasping hold of the door support, holding his belly. Hawkeye stripped off his surgical gloves and approached. Before he could say anything, Radar doubled over and was heartily sick. Hawkeye crouched next to him, reaching out for him but the younger man avoided him.

"Leave me alone! Don't touch me!" Radar leapt to his feet and ran for the latrine tent, one hand stuck over his mouth, the other warding off Hawkeye.

"Radar! – "

"Leave him." It was Margaret and she was blocking his way.

"Get out of my way," Hawkeye ground out, his eyes still following Radar's departing figure.

"You disgust me!" Margaret spat.

"Funny, the war disgusts me. Radar needs me."

And suddenly Margaret pulled back and slapped him hard across the cheek. Hawkeye stared at her, a thousand emotions going through his brain.

"And those soldiers in there need you more. Radar can wait," Margaret said. "You have a job to do or are you going to condemn another man to death?" Margaret's eyes were swimming with tears. When he shook his head unable to speak, she grabbed his shoulders and shook him violently - and the small part of his brain that wasn't howling with misery noticed both that she had some wiry strength and that this was probably the closest he had ever got to her in months of determined flirting.

He grabbed her close for a second and wiped his face on her shoulder. "Why Margaret, you know how I love a dominant woman."

She let him go with a gentle shove and together they returned to the O.R., calling for fresh gloves and gowns.

Fate had robbed Hawkeye of one of his closest friends in a senseless, unnecessary act of violence and then to add insult to injury it had imprisoned him in O.R for five hours as he patched together kids barely old enough to shave. As he walked out, Hawkeye wiped at his streaming eyes and tried to contain his sobs. It was only the second time he had cried since arriving in the cess-pit known as the Korean War. He was a doctor, he was supposed to be able to save lives; this was the second friend whom he had not been able to patch back together.

He breathed in a few deep breaths of the cold air and headed, tiredly, for Blake's office, looking for Radar. Radar wasn't in his office nor in Blake's. Hawkeye scrubbed weary fingers through his hair and checked all the other Radar haunts, including his zoo. Still no Radar. Irritation warred with genuine concern – if Radar had done something stupidâ€ He cast a nervous glance at the mine field. He saw Father Mulcahy emerge from the Post-op ward and beckoned him over. The Father squeezed his arm gently and Hawkeye had to close his eyes to stop himself breaking down right there and then.

"Father, have you seen Radar?"

"I'm glad I've caught you, my son. He's up on the chopper pad. He won't come down."

With a backward wave, Hawkeye ran as quickly as his exhaustion would take him to the chopper pad. Radar was hunched against a rocky outcrop, staring up at the sky with unseeing eyes. He was clutching something; it took a second for Hawkeye to identify Henry's doll. He folded his aching body next to Radar's and again reached out to comfort him. Radar evaded him.

"Don't touch me," he said dully.

"Understood - I'm not feeling very sociable either. Mind if I stare at nothing with you?"

Silently the two man watched the sky turn to deepest night.


	2. After Henry 2

Author: Elanor  
Pairing: Hawkeye / Radar  
Rating: PG this chapter  
Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to anything and I am making no  
profit from this story.  
Archive - yes please!

AFTER HENRY

CHAPTER TWO

The company of the 4077th gathered sombrely to pay their last respects to their late commanding officer. For the first time in his army career, Hawkeye Pierce stood to attention and saluted while Radar and Klinger with all due ceremony lowered the flag to half mast. One or two nurses were crying openly and even iron-drawers Margaret had tears shining in her eyes. Only Ferret-faced Burns remained unmoved by his company's grief – Henry's death was nothing more than a convenient way for him to get his grubby little paws on command.

And so Hawkeye saluted his commanding officer and friend, struggling to accept the fact that bungling, big-hearted Henry Blake was truly dead. It was the injustice that rankled. Yesterday he had waved goodbye to Henry as the chopper had flown him out of the army and he had been forced to come to terms, amid the tears of happiness, with the fact that he would probably never see Henry again. He had still been happy – Henry was returning home, to kiss his wife and finally hold the son he had never met. For that bright future to be ripped away from him was what Hawkeye couldn't accept.

Klinger now marched impeccably back to the ranks and, despite the heaviness of his heart, Hawkeye couldn't help but smile slightly at Klinger's attire: a tasteful black dress with veil and gloves. Radar marched to his place at Frank Burn's side and the company sat down. Hawkeye studied Radar's expression but the clerk's face was devoid of any emotion. Father Mulcahy took the lectern and Hawkeye knew how much it bothered the priest that there was no coffin to bless. No coffin, no stars and stripes shroud, no gun salute – just an empty place in people's hearts. As Mulcahy began his simple, heartfelt service Hawkeye's gaze was again drawn to Radar. There was something childlike and innocent about Radar, something that spoke of blue skies and apple pie. Amidst the blood and mutilated corpses, Radar's optimism and simple faith in humanity had been like a ray of hope to Hawkeye. The war had affected him, it had caused him anguish but he had always remained untainted, uncorrupted. Now as Hawkeye regarded him, he could see innocence shattered. Henry's death was one too many for this unassuming, gentle man. Radar returned Hawkeye's gaze not with grief or anger but with an expression of cynicism that hurt Hawkeye almost as much as the circumstances causing it. He had two more things to hate the war for – Henry's useless death and Radar's loss of innocence.

Mulcahy concluded his benediction and asked Hawkeye to take the lectern to deliver his eulogy. All morning he'd been trying to think of what to say. He wiped his sweaty palms on his neatly pressed trousers and unfolded his notes. He looked out at the congregation – Father Mulcahy smiling encouragingly, far too young and damn well nice to be sent to a shitty outfit like this, Margaret whose chin was lifted in defiance as though daring the tears in her eyes to fall, Frank smiling his smarmy empty smile, Trapper unusually still and sober and, lastly, Radar who impassively returned the regard – unusual for Radar who generally dropped eye contact as much as Frank dropped sterile instruments. Hawkeye cleared his throat, all the noble words fleeing. He'd got less than a sentence out when Trapper jumped to his feet, waving for silence.

"Did you hear that? Choppers!"

"What?" Margaret said, "I don't hear anything. If this is another school boy prank, don't you think it's in extremely bad – "

Hawkeye's gaze swung back to Radar but the man remained quiet. A moment or two later and Hawkeye heard the familiar sound himself. For a split second he hesitated, outrage surging inside him. He wanted to order everyone back to their seats, continue his eulogy and give Henry the send-off he deserved. With a muttered curse, he threw the prepared speech to the ground and began to sprint for the landing site. He threw a backward glance at Radar who hadn't pre-empted the choppers' arrival and whose gentle features were currently twisted in an ironic smirk.

Radar heaved a deep sigh and followed the others as they raced towards the chopper pad, doctors, nurses and support staff peeling off to their appointed tasks with the ease of long practise. Two choppers had already dispatched their cargo, another two positioning to land. He pulled back the gauze off the first casualty's head - half the guy's face seemed to be missing. Once, before Henry Blake wound up at the bottom of the sea in a million pieces, Radar would have had to crawl away to be sick at the sight, now he merely flipped the gauze back into place and prevented the orderlies from conveying the corpse to the ambulance. "Forget it, he's bought it."

He moved to the other side and the guy, who had a mangled leg, grabbed Radar's hand, almost mad with pain. "God, help me! The pain! You've gotta help me." Once, he would have called for painkillers or at least held the guy's hand and tried to soothe him. Now, with a perverse sense of pleasure, he retrieved his hand and offered a cynical shrug. "That's because you've been shot, Jenkins," he said callously. There was a burning feeling low down in his stomach but Radar ignored it. He felt rather than saw Hawkeye appear beside him.

"What we got, Radar?"

"Leg and a stiff."

Hawkeye shot him a look. "The 'stiff's' the one not groaning in agony, I assume?" He shot painkillers into the crying guy's arm and grabbed the front of the gurney. "It's okay, you're going to be okay. Let's get this guy into the ambulance. Immediate surgery."

Once the wounded man was stacked into the ambulance, Hawkeye fumbled for Radar's hand and, ignoring his instinctive flinch, pressed it to the man's bleeding leg. "Press down hard there, kid. How are supplies? Do we have enough blood in stock?"

Radar met his gaze. "Depends how much they bleed, I guess, captain."

In the O.R, Hawkeye threw a bloody sponge to the floor. "It's a pleasure to serve in a war which has such exquisite timing. We don't even get to honour our fallen comrade - or in this case our blown up and mangled comrade." He plugged a bleeding artery, having to blink hard at the tears he couldn't wipe away. "Goddammit! Some mighty fine send-off." He cast a glare at Mulcahy who was praying quietly, whether for the boy on the table or for Henry Hawkeye didn't know. "God's got a tremendous sense of humour, Father. He gives Henry his papers, gleefully has him blown into fish food and then, as an encore, interrupts his Memorial Service."

Mulcahy held Hawkeye's gaze. "God understands your anger, Hawkeye. There's no reason why we cannot continue Henry's service here." So saying, in a trembling voice that gradually gained in confidence Mulcahy began to sing 'Abide With Me'. One by one, the staff in the O.R joined in, their song in time being taken up by those in the compound.

Hawkeye accepted the sticky, yellowish stodge that Igor was trying to prise onto his tray with only a half-hearted dig at needing some glue for his boots, and looked round the mess tent. There was an atmosphere of anger and remorse so thick he could have cut it with his scalpel. He nudged Trapper and led the way to Radar's table. Klinger, still dressed in mourning, was lingering over his second cup of coffee in a transparent ploy to keep Radar company; Radar's body language suggested his efforts were wasted.

"Afternoon, sirs," Klinger greeted jovially. Radar didn't glance up from his untouched tray. "Don't eat the chicken."

"Which one's the chicken?" Trapper asked as Klinger gathered his tray and handbag in preparation for his shift. He patted Radar's shoulder in parting and Hawkeye saw Radar cringe from the contact.

"Don't forget your coffee, Klinger," he said as the man clicked away on his high heels, "the tents could do with a creosoting."

"Everything's a joke to you, isn't it?" Radar snapped uncharacteristically.

"Bad coffee is funny, Radar," Trapper said gently, "Henry's death isn't."

Hawkeye dropped his jokey demeanour and squeezed Radar's hand which was immediately retracted. "We loved Henry too. Don't block us out, okay?" He nudged Radar's tray. "I can't believe I'm suggesting this but try to eat something, Radar."

Radar suddenly leapt to his feet, his face contorted with rage. "I am not Radar! My name is Walter O'Riley."

The two men stared at him in frank astonishment but before they could speak or even process the implications, Margaret marched into view. Hawkeye saw a glimmer of compassion then her expression hardened. "Major Burns wants to see all officers – and you, corporal – immediately."

Hawkeye prodded his lunch and offered her an innocent smile. "Would it be too obvious if I said we don't want to see Major Burns? And is it me or did that piece of meat just move?"

"Now, corporal," Margaret bawled.

"Yes, sir," Radar said flatly.

"Ma'am, I'm a Ma'am!"

Radar regarded her almost with dislike. "If you say so."

Hawkeye exchanged a worried glance with Trapper and followed the pair out.

Frank Burns was signing papers with an air of importance when the others were marched in by Margaret. He pretended to sign a few forms, nearly knocked over his coffee, and finally leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers.

"Salute men," he rapped.

Hawkeye, who had sprawled into a chair, crashed to attention and saluted Trapper and Radar. "Men," he barked, "I salute you." He turned to Margaret, a sly smirk on his face and saluted her too.

"Me!" squeaked Frank, "you're supposed to salute me."

Hawkeye resumed his seat with a bored sniff. "You're not a man, Frank. What do you want us for? Apart from a personality transplant?"

"Ha de ha. I'm in command now, Pierce. I can make your life hell."

"The war that killed my friend makes my life hell, Frank, you're nothing more than a minor irritant."

"There'll be no more slacking, no more slovenly behaviour. Regulation uniform will be worn by everyone, including that degenerate Klinger. And as for your lewdness, there will be no more consorting with nurses."

Trapper grinned and stared significantly at Margaret. "From anyone, Frank?"

Pierce put up his hand. "Please sir, Major Burns, sir."

Frank eyed him with deep suspicion. "What is it, captain?"

"Is there a manual for learning how to goosestep? And do I have to grow a Hitler moustache or can I buy one?"

Frank shuffled his papers, losing half of them on the floor, and tried to resume control. "I'm not a pushover like that half-witted fool before me - God rest his soul."

The door banged closed as Radar pointedly left the room. Hawkeye glared at Frank. "Oh, and speaking of that half-witted fool – God rest his soul, if He can find all the pieces of it – we're holding a wake for Henry at 19 hundred hours – that's when the little hand is at seven."

"That's right," Trapper continued, "and you're not invited."

"But Henry Blake was my friend," Frank whined.

"The word hypercritical was invented for you, Frank," Hawkeye said.

"Look it up in a dictionary. I'll give you a clue, it doesn't have anything to do with hippos."

"I know what it means, McIntyre. I took the Hippocratic Oath too, you know."

"Really – in crayon?" Hawkeye was getting sick of Frank's company. "Much as I am not enjoying this little chin-wag, I ask again, what do you want, Frank?"

"The major called you in to make you aware of his new status," Margaret replied when Frank looked lost.

"Has he been crowned King of Korea or something?"

"My new status as commanding officer of this MASH unit," Frank snapped petulantly, "Any more insubordination and I'll have both of you thrown in the klink, yes siree, Bob."

"Who's Bob? C'mon Frank, you wouldn't dare."

"Blake might have let you get away with infantile jokes, Pierce, and behaviour unbecoming to an officer but I won't. I can file a commander's report now and send it straight to General Hammond." At the captains' look of extreme boredom, he bawled, "Corporal!" He opened his mouth expecting Radar to have already materialised miraculously at his side but no Radar appeared. Pouting slightly, he called again. Eventually Radar entered, regarding Burns with an expression of thinly veiled disgust.

"Corporal, I called you."

"I didn't hear. Sir. Did you want something?"

"You know what I want." At Radar's blank look, he lost patience and ordered his papers of command. He waved them under Hawkeye's nose but Hawkeye was watching Radar disappear out of the door. "See? Full command authorisation."

"That's just great, Frank. Now if you'll dismiss me I can go to the latrine to be sick."

"Oh, get out of here!" Margaret screeched.

"Frank, your mouth didn't even move," Trapper sniped as the two captains made their way to the door.

"He wasn't using the lips on his face," Hawkeye explained.

Margaret followed them out and for a second she let her guard down as she said almost tenderly. "I'll miss him too, Hawkeye."

He wanted to scream at her, to point out all the times when she had gone over Henry's head, all the times she had treated him like a spineless worm but he didn't have the energy. "I'll see you at seven."

The mess tent had been transformed for Henry's wake; bandages coiled round the uprights, inflated plastic gloves, some scrawled with rude messages, dangled from the roof and a stage had been erected from supply crates. In pride of place on the stage, stood figures A and B which had figured so prominently in Henry's bewildering monthly lectures. And so for the next few hours the unit remembered their late commanding officer, spinning tales, laughing and crying in equal measure as each person struggled to come to terms with their loss. Rizzo was wearing a black pullover upon which he had painted a huge 'I' in imitation of Henry's favourite jumper and quite a few people were sporting fishing hats. Hawkeye went through the motions dutifully - he offered words of comfort where he could, danced a few slow dances and applauded when each person took the stage to offer their own personal testimony to Henry's kindness and warmth - but his heart wasn't in it. Despite an announcement over the tannoy, Radar was conspicuous by his absence. Hawkeye had tried several times in the course of the last few hours to find him but he appeared to be avoiding him, and indeed everyone else. He noticed Frank Burns had Father Mulcahy buttonholed, telling him (probably because no-one else would listen) how much he had adored, nay worshipped, Henry Blake and how he would never forget him. Hawkeye slunk off into a quiet corner and sipped his martini moodily. Trapper broke away from a warm nurse to join him, reading his mood with ease as always.

"No Radar then."

"I can't find him. God, Trap, I hate seeing him like that. That creature walking about out there – out there, mark you, not in here - is not Radar O'Riley. I can't believe he acted like that with the patients."

"He's angry, Hawk. Anger's a natural reaction to grief."

Hawkeye stirred his martini with an olive. "Anger I can take – I'll even GIVE him some of my anger. But he's bitter and cynical. Now there's an oxymoron for you. I don't know how to help him."

"Perhaps you can't. You're a doctor, Hawkeye, not God."

"Don't talk to me about God, me and the Big Guy are definitely not on speaking terms." Hawkeye shifted in agitation. "He needs me!"

Trapper was silent for a minute. "Are you sure? We all loved Henry, Hawkeye, but are you sure you're not pursuing Radar to assuage your own grief?"

"You know, maybe I am!" Hawkeye leapt to his feet, all restless energy and wounded pride. "Is that so terrible? My friend is dead – our friend, Trapper," he added significantly. Instead of matching his anger, Trapper simply reached for him, wrapping him in his arms. It always took a conscious effort to allow himself to be vulnerable, to be something other than The Great Doctor Hawkeye Pierce, surgeon extraordinaire, but Henry's death and Radar's strange behaviour had eroded all his defences and so Hawkeye leaned into Trapper's solid weight and let his eyes drift closed. Trapper stroked his back soothingly and he drifted further, soaking up the comfort. He'd lowered all his defences but, as always, Trapper had not. He pulled back, disengaging himself from Hawkeye's arms; it was done gently but the message was clear: back off, Hawkeye. Hawkeye locked gazes with him, disbelief and need warring with outrage. Trapper dropped eye contact, saying gruffly, "You can't be Henry for him."

"I can be comfort," Hawkeye bit back. "You know like when you and me..." He trailed off for it was something they had never admitted – not until Trapper had announced that it mustn't happen again.

Trapper's expression stiffened. "And when the kid wants more than you can give? Or thinks it's more than comfort?"

Too much to think about here, too many potential time bombs. "I'll take that chance. This time. I'm not going to let my friend down." He slammed his martini down on the footlocker, stepped over Klinger who was drunkenly telling Rizzo how he had sewn every sequin on his dress for Henry, and made for the door.

The moment Hawkeye banged through the office door, Radar suddenly became deeply absorbed in his filing. "How did I know I'd find you here – I must have ESP." When that little dig produced no significant response, Hawkeye continued, "Listen, I can see how absorbing, not to mention boring, counting paperclips and writing stationary orders in triplicate must be for you but the wake's started. There's a grape knee high with your name on it."

"Why bother? The wake'll get interrupted just like the Memorial Service," Radar responded with heavy, biting sarcasm. "I'm not coming. Sir."

Hawkeye watched him shuffling papers from one pigeon hole to the next. "Don't say that. I know how you must be feeling. Talk to me." He tried to inject a note of levity into the proceedings by adding, "I am a doctor."

"Okay, fine: Colonel Blake is dead, blown to smithereens," Radar said as though itemising a supply list, "his Memorial Service was interrupted, his children are orphans and Major Burns wants me to colour code all the files by morning. Any part I missed out?" He wrenched open the filing cabinet as noisily as possible and turned his back on Pierce.

Hawkeye leaned against the cabinet, his voice dropping to gentle tones as he tried to compel Radar to make eye contact. "You know it's okay to grieve. You're even allowed to cry. God, even Margaret cried! You're allowed to be angry, you're allowed to feel alone and abandoned, Radar."

"I asked you not to call me that."

Radar's insistence on being called by his given name had been niggling Hawkeye since lunch - it was undoubtedly more than a mechanism for keeping people at arm's length. He tried a light probing. "Sorry. It takes some getting used to, when 'Radar' seems such an appropriate name for you." When Radar's features stiffened, Hawkeye decided to drop the subject for the moment. He studied Radar's body language. Despite the aloofness, the air of disinterest and cynicism, there was still a hint of wounded animal in Radar's hunched shoulders. "No-one will think less of you because you grieve for your friend and father, Walter."

"He wasn't my father! I never even called him by his first name." Hawkeye wondered if that was part of the problem: Radar was trying to rationalise his complex relationship with Henry. Not easy; Henry had his defences, his own need for distance and Radar, despite their closeness, had been too much the dutiful subordinate to push for more. Although it was improving, Radar still tended to refer to Hawkeye and Trapper as sir. Hawkeye put his arm round Radar's shoulders, trying with all his compassion and skill to reach him. "Henry loved you, Walter."

The response was immediate: Radar pulled away from Hawkeye just as he had all day but this time even more violently. "I told you, don't touch me, don't ever touch me! If you touch me ..."

"What? You'll feel the contact? You'll feel the warmth of another human being?" Certain things were starting to fall into place: the change of name, the touch issue. "You'll have to admit I exist? God forbid. That's what this is all about, isn't it?"

Hawkeye had expected an angry denial or a sarcastic comment but instead the clerk sagged as if all the fire, all the energy, had been drained from his body. The mask slipped away and he was a hurting, forlorn Radar again. "I could hear him die, Hawkeye."

Hawkeye took a shocked step back and he found he couldn't form any words, either of denial or comfort. Finally Radar gave an apologetic shrug and continued: "I felt it. I was there when the plane was shot down. I could feel him ... die. I could hear people screaming, the sound of metal buckling. I heard the engines screaming as the plane went into a flat spin. I heard Colonel Blake choking against the smoke and fumes – gee, I hope I never hear anything like that again. I heard him die, Hawkeye, and I felt like my gut was being torn from my body."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Hawkeye murmured. Everything clicked into place. "That's why you won't let anyone touch you."

The clerk met his gaze, his eyes begging for understanding. "It doesn't always happen like that. But if I get close to someone, I pick them up like radio transmissions. Ma said I get the gift from my uncle Ernest. But it's not a gift, Hawkeye, it's a curse."

There was silence while Radar strove for control and Hawkeye sought to process all the information. Until today he had never quite believed in Radar's premonitions. Or perhaps he hadn't wanted too. Partly they were such an idiosynchratic part of his friend that he had become used to them – they had ceased to be anything wonderful or out of the ordinary. Partly he had always thought they could be explained rationally: Radar pre-empting the choppers could just be down to his having very good hearing. Similarly in a day there were only so many forms that Henry could want so Radar seemingly reading Henry's mind to produce the right one could just be down to coincidence and playing the odds. This event, however, shook Hawkeye's cynicism. Radar's uncanny sixth sense had compelled him to witness his friend's death and, consequently he was trying to distance himself, physically and psychically, from all other contact. The logic was simple: if he stopped being Radar, he wouldn't get hurt again.

"I don't want to go through that again, Hawkeye," he continued in a weary voice. "It hurts too much."

Now that he understood the sickness Hawkeye could offer healing. "I wish I could promise you that the pain will ease but pain is a part of life. I wish you could go back to your farm in Iowa, I wish I could go back to Crabapple Cove. I wish Henry were alive, snoring in his office right now." He offered a gentle smile. "But life and this war suck, Radar. Those visions caused you pain – I understand that – but they've also brought comfort and strength and friendship. The way you used to pre-empt Henry, he really used to like that, it made him feel special."

For a swift second Hawkeye thought he was getting through to his friend then Radar shook his head. "I'm not coming to the wake, Hawkeye." He cast him a guilty, almost furtive look. "I'm sorry, sir."

Hawkeye's patience snapped. "Fine! Withdraw behind your shield, batten down the hatches, pretend the world doesn't exist, see if I care." He strode to the door, yanking it open. He whirled round for his parting shot. "Oh, by the way, remember Jenkins, that guy with the shot-up leg, the one screaming in agony? He lost his leg. Yeah, you see we didn't get to him in time. Just a few more minutes – a few more minutes given to us, for example by your pre-empting the choppers - and maybe we could have saved the leg. Henry's not the only casualty of this war, Radar."


	3. After Henry 3

Author: Elanor  
Pairing: Hawkeye/Radar  
Rating:Not sure what the rating is, more than PG, less than NC17 I'd say.  
Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to anything and I am making no profit from this story.  
Archive - yes please!

Author's note. A hyphen – before dialogue is how I have indicated Radar's ability to say things at the same time as someone else or to answer questions before the question is finished.

AFTER HENRY

CHAPTER THREE

Almost as if he had been expecting his failure, Trapper was waiting with a martini when Hawkeye returned to the mess tent. "Vintage year," he told him, "It's been brewing for almost twenty minutes. No luck?"

"Thanks. None whatsoever. Have I mentioned recently how much I adore this war?"

"Not for a few minutes."

Hawkeye offered a cynical smile. "I must be slipping up." All he wanted to do now was get as drunk as possible in the shortest time possible. He poured himself another martini, downing it in one gulp, feeling the fire spread down his throat to his gut. He was about to guzzle the next round direct from the jug when the mess tent door swung open and Radar shuffled hesitantly inside. Hawkeye froze mid-slurp then his face broke into an exultant smile. Radar moved through the welcoming throng, nodding and smiling as one person then the next greeted him with warmth and genuine affection. Father Mulcahy shook his hand, practically beaming with pride. Radar stopped in front of Hawkeye and Trapper, shoved his hands into his pockets in that patented Radar way and shrugged. "I thought you said there was a grape knee high with my name on it?"

Hawkeye took the stage. He tapped his glass delicately – no-one paid him the slightest attention. He was about to ask Radar to quieten everyone down but Radar had already pre-empted him and was roaring for silence. As Hawkeye swept his keen gaze round the assembled company a strange thought occurred to him – for all the pain and useless loss of war, these people meant more to him in a few short months than friends of ten years back home. "First, for your edification, nay delight, the results of this afternoon's competition. Father?" Mulcahy played a few rousing chords on the piano. "And the winner who, incorrectly, guess that Henry's last lecture was on planting potatoes when in reality it was on social diseases is Corporal Maxwell Klinger!" Klinger mounted the stage in a nifty taffeta ball gown which showed a distressing amount of hairy leg. "And your prize, you lucky lady, is your choice of either figure A or figure B to take home with you tonight!" Once the laughter had died away, and Klinger had finally settled on figure A whom he re-christened Henrietta, Hawkeye continued: "As you all know, the proceeds, some one thousand dollars, will go to the family Henry left behind. It doesn't make up for Lorraine's tragic loss but it means a lot to all of us." Hawkeye paused, struggling against the well of grief that he knew would never fully go away. "Father Mulcahy asked me to deliver the eulogy at Henry's Memorial Service but I think that that honour should go to the person who was closest to Henry – Radar O'Riley."

With a shy smile Radar climbed onto the stage, his eyes growing large at all the people hanging on his every word. "I never knew my dad – my real dad. He died when I was little. I was an orphan, except for ma, I mean." Radar shrugged in that self-effacing way of his. "Then I got drafted and Colonel Blake ... He made me feel special and needed and, you know, suddenly I had a dad again." Radar took a deep, trembling breath and swiped at his eyes behind his glasses. The room was very quiet. "I miss Colonel Blake so much and, by golly, I'd give anything to talk to him for just one more hour. But he's dead and I'm an orphan again."

He couldn't go on. Hawkeye stepped up, putting his arm round Radar's shoulders and, for the first time since Henry's death, Radar allowed the contact. Trapper handed them glasses and Hawkeye held his up, working at keeping his voice steady enough for the toast.

"My friends, I give you Henry Blake, friend, commanding officer, father-figure and all round good guy." He smiled affectionately, feeling some of the grief lift. "Goodbye, farewell, amen, Henry."

As the dancing resumed, Klinger came over to where Trapper, Radar and Hawkeye were sitting. He dropped into his chair with an unladylike flop. "Nurses, huh," he declared around his cigar. "Would you believe not one of them will have a dance with me?"

"I'd dance with you," Radar said earnestly and blushed when Hawkeye and Trapper sniggered. "If you were a real woman, I mean," he added hastily.

Trapper took a swill of his martini. "I don't think they like being outclassed by a fruitcake in a better frock than theirs."

"I was wondering if it was the tiara. Truthfully, does a tiara work with fake fruit and ostrich feathers?"

"Funny, I've never been asked that question before," Trapper replied. "And will you please hitch your skirt down – either that or keep your legs closed."

"Preferably both," Hawkeye joined in. "Try Janet, that's her third beer, she'd probably dance with Frank."

"Thanks, guys. Good speech, Radar." Klinger clapped Radar on the shoulder and straightened his tiara. As he was striding away, occasionally tottering in his heels, Radar gave a start and put down his drink.

"Holy cow! I'd better be going too, sirs."

"What's the rush, kid? Forgot to tell your Bear you'd be home late?" Trapper teased.

"What? Oh no, sir. It's Mrs Colonel Blake. You know Colonel Blake's Mrs Blake, his wife."

"That part we got," Hawkeye prompted.

"She's going to phone."

"Want some company?"

"Thanks, Hawkeye."

The two men had no sooner gained the door than the phone rang. Radar sucked in a deep breath, steeled himself as though he were about to wrestle a bear, and picked it up. "Mrs Colonel Blake, ma'am? It's Radar, ma'am."

Hawkeye saw the look of devastation on Radar's mobile face but, just as the clerk had saluted Henry as the chopper had borne him away forever without breaking down, now he talked to the man's widow. Feeling supremely useless, Hawkeye stood behind Radar's chair and rested his hands on his shoulders. He listened with grief and sore pride as Radar comforted Lorraine. Most men found a woman crying embarrassing but in his simple, gentle way, Radar soothed and encouraged her to let go. It was a humbling experience for the doctor. Finally Radar hung up; he cast a glance at Hawkeye who had moved to perch on the desk, before dropping eye contact. When he spoke, he sounded lost and forlorn.

"He never saw his new baby, you know, never held him. Gee, Hawk, that baby will grow up never knowing what a great guy his father was."

"We'll tell him. We'll write."

For a second Radar's features twisted in bitterness. "What should I say to him? That I let his father down? Because I sure did and no mistake." Hawkeye remained silent, letting Radar rant, knowing he needed the release. "Oh, Hawk! Why couldn't I have seen Colonel Blake's death before he left? Why did I see it too late to do anything about it? I let him down." In his hour of need, the one time when Henry Blake needed him, genuinely needed him, and Radar had failed him. He recalled all the times when he had pre-empted his friend, all the stupid forms and phone calls; they had made him feel important, useful – but what use was the ability to simultaneously answer someone's question and bring them a gin before they asked when it couldn't foresee that person's death?

"Don't say that," Hawkeye snapped, "I don't know why you had to witness Henry's death, kid. I don't know why Tommy Gillis had to die under my hands. I don't know why we're stuck here in this sewer. If I ever get to heaven, however, you can be sure that I'll ask the Big Guy the first chance I get." He raised Radar's chin, his voice losing its anger to be replaced by tenderness. "I do know it wasn't your fault."

"It hurt so much, Hawk, being there. D'you know what his last words were? He was talking to his daughter's photo, telling her he'd be home soon." Radar gave a choked sob, then turning in his chair, he pressed his face into Hawkeye's belly as the tears he had not allowed himself to shed in front of the company or Lorraine began to fall.

When the worst of the storm seemed to be over, Hawkeye unwound himself from Radar's clinging arms and chivvied him to his feet. "Here," he mumbled, "up you come, kid." Radar blinked stupidly, still snuffling a little. Hawkeye cupped his face for a moment then leaned down and kissed him, more a pressure of lips than anything else.

"S-sir? Hawkeye? What are you doing?" Radar sounded so astounded that Hawkeye couldn't help but tease him.

"I'm not knitting a jumper nor am I annotating my stamp collection – because I don't have one. I do believe I'm kissing you."

- "You're kissing me!" Radar squeaked at the same time.

Although the twinkle remained, Hawkeye's eyes were serious. "You need this." There were many forms of healing, perhaps all Hawkeye was doing even now was being a doctor. "Healing, comfort, call it what you will." Hawkeye rested his hands on Radar's shoulders, tugging until Radar hesitantly stepped into his embrace. Such an uncomplicated thing, holding and being held, such a complex thing too. Usually by now he would have been chafing at the bit, wanting to progress to the next base – hit a home run even – but tonight there was no urgency. He could have stood there forever, holding Radar, giving and receiving comfort, letting the stress and the grief wash away. He concentrated on the simple things: Radar's regular if slightly elevated heartbeat, the solid weight of his body and the occasional tremor that ran through his body, half excitement, half nervousness. Keeping one hand where it was, rhythmically rubbing up and down Radar's back, he lifted the other to sieve through the soft hair at the nape of his neck. Radar wriggled and giggled, leaning further into Hawkeye's embrace and his hands which had remained loose at his sides, lifted to encircle Hawkeye's waist.

"You need to feel cherished," Hawkeye murmured into the quiet of the night, his words no more than a breath against Radar's skin. And perhaps I need to feel cherished too, Hawkeye added to himself. To feel special to someone who did not calculate the cost of each touch and whose love did not come with a thousand conditions. He cupped Radar's face, letting his long fingers caress his ear which made Radar squeak, and leaned in for more kisses, sweet as honey, darting his tongue against Radar's closed lips, requesting entry which was shyly given. No frenzied duelling, just gentleness and care. Radar was beginning to respond, chasing Hawkeye's tongue back into his mouth, his hands gripping at Hawkeye's Hawaiian shirt.

Finally Radar took a step back, his eyes wide with awe. "Wow," he breathed, touching his own lips. "Holy cow."

"I like you," Hawkeye smiled, "you're easily pleased. That was some oral physical you just gave me. Let's see what else you can do." He left the pleasure of his mouth to nip along his jaw, enjoying the rasp of whiskers, until he reached his ear. He loved Radar's response to his touches – everything, even the simplest kiss, was something new and wonderful, a sensation to be cherished. He was shy and awkward but he wasn't holding back. He didn't know how to play it cool; he simply revelled in the contact. Hawkeye suckled on his earlobe, feeling Radar's body shudder and his hands knead his back like a kitten seeking its mother's milk. He eased back and, for a moment, saw terror flare in Radar's eyes at the loss of contact. He kissed him in reassurance and then transferred his attention to his shirt, starting to unbutton it. He nuzzled against the newly exposed skin of his neck, murmuring, "You're blushing."

The words served to enflame Radar's skin further. He grabbed for the sides of his shirt and began to button it back up. Hawkeye shook his head fondly and proceeded to unbutton the shirt again. They reached a stalemate of buttoning and unbuttoning until Hawkeye slapped Radar's hands away.

"I make it a rule never to sleep with anyone dressed in khaki," he explained as he finally managed to undo the shirt and slide it off Radar's arms, leaving Radar in his t shirt.

"S-sleep? Sleep? Oh, gee."

"Why, Corporal O'Riley, what else were you thinking of doing with me? Taking advantage of me like that!" His performance was so outrageous that despite his nervousness, Radar giggled. Hawkeye's eyes were warm with reassurance. "Hey, trust me, okay. I'm a doctor."

- "You're a doctor." Both men laughed and the ice was broken. Radar nodded, allowing Hawkeye to tug at the hem of his T shirt and pull it off. Hawkeye stepped back slightly and Radar blushed again at the provocative regard travelling up and down his naked torso. "Am I still cute?"

Hawkeye's smile broadened at the reference to the check-up he had given Radar a few months ago. "Cute. Arousing." Hawkeye caught Radar's gaze at the last and held it as he guided the clerk's hand to the buttons on his own shirt and watched with a mixture of fondness and building excitement as the man fumbled them open. He tossed the shirt to the foot of the cot and pulled back the blanket with a flourish. Radar's teddy stared up at him.

"Has he been watching us all this time? Three's definitely a crowd. He can keep Henry's doll company tonight. As long as he doesn't try anything, that is." He set the teddy next to the Japanese doll and crawled under the covers, opening his arms in invitation. Radar removed his glasses and cuddled close, sighing contentedly when Hawkeye spooned behind him.

"Hawkeye?"

"Here."

"Did that guy Jenkins really lose his leg because of me?"

"No, Radar, it wasn't your fault." Hawkeye felt the guilt colour his cheeks; he hadn't blushed in years. "I'm sorry I said that – it was way out of line. So far out of line that it isn't even possible to see the line." Aware that he was covering his guilt with babble, Hawkeye offered a shrug. "I'm truly sorry." The sad truth of the matter was that nothing could have saved the poor guy's leg. Another life cut short by this detestable, futile war.

Radar's face registered immense relief. "Jeepers! Oh, I'm sure glad to hear that." He frowned, reading some of Hawkeye's self-recrimination and immediately offering reassurance. "Oh, you mustn't feel bad. It's okay, really."

And that in a nutshell was what drew Hawkeye to this gentle man – his faith in humanity, his shining trust, his grace. Hawkeye sometimes felt his own hands were stained with the blood of the kids he had cobbled back together – being near Radar made him feel clean. Made him feel that there was something worth believing in, amidst the filth and lice and sharp stench of blood that never quite went away.

Radar was continuing, "I treated him so badly. I didn't even give him a painkiller. Gee, if Colonel Blake knew, he'd sure come back from heaven and tan my hide."

Despite the twinge of regret, Hawkeye couldn't help but smile at the image of Henry garbed in a white robe and strumming a harp. "You know how you can make Henry proud? By being Radar, spooky premonitions, garbled sentences, shining innocence and all – all the qualities that made him consider you a friend and surrogate son."

Hawkeye was just beginning to drift off, feeling warm and safe (which was ridiculous) for the first time in months when Radar spoke up. "Did he suffer? Much? I have to know."

Compassion filled Hawkeye at the thought of what Henry had gone through in the last few minutes of his life. "No, Radar, it would have been quick." Please, God, he prayed fervently, let it have been quick.

Radar struggled awake, fighting the gripping thrall of a nightmare but even awake, gasping for breath, the images dogged him: blood, dismembered bodies and beneath it all an all-pervading sense of disgust and futility. But it wasn't his own nightmare that hounded him, made the nausea rise – it was Hawkeye's, the images so raw and brutal that Radar was receiving them. He grabbed Hawkeye's shoulder, shaking him almost in frenzy until the man woke with a half-cry. For a moment, the nightmare gleamed in his eyes then he shook his head as if to clear it.

"Radar? What ...? Choppers?"

"Golly, no. You were having a nightmare – I'm sorry, I didn't know how else to stop it."

Only half listening, Hawkeye rubbed at his eyes and glanced out of the window. He gave a twisted smile. "Dawn. The nightmares are always worse at dawn." Radar hesitantly put an arm round his shoulder and Hawkeye leaned against him for a moment before, apparently, remembering their roles. "Are you okay? You look pale. Did I wake you?"

Radar had never been good at lying. He shrugged. "Oh, that's okay. I'm sorry it hurt you so much."

Hawkeye frowned and seemed to come to a partial understanding. "You were picking up on it? Wow, you should go on TV."

Radar squirmed and felt the blush rise. He was used to the transmissions but he had learned over time, especially since coming to Korea, that other people were uncomfortable discussing his abilities. "I'm sorry, sir, I wasn't doing it on purpose. See what I mean about a curse? I don't want to keep hurting like this."

Hawkeye reached for him, drawing him back into his protection and love. "Hey, we've been through that or weren't you paying attention? The premonitions are part of who you are, Radar, as much a part of your personality and character as your honesty and gentleness. You have to let yourself feel." Hawkeye moved slightly, nudging Radar onto his back and leaning over him on his elbow. He stroked his deft fingers across Radar's face, down his throat and across his shoulders, a whisper of a touch that had Radar sighing in pleasure. He continued his ministrations, gentle and undemanding, now stroking across his friend's eyebrows, then over his lips. "Feel that? Every touch confirms that we're alive, that there's a shred of humanity that this god-awful war hasn't destroyed." He kissed Radar's forehead almost in benediction.

Radar had his eyes closed but he was smiling almost in wonder. "I can feel you," he murmured."

"That was the idea."

Radar caught Hawkeye's hand and tugged it to hold over his heart. "No, I mean I can feel you, in here." Moved beyond words, Hawkeye gathered Radar close again and the two men eased, drifting in that comforting state between sleep and wakefulness. After half an hour or so, Radar stirred. Hawkeye could feel the younger man's body stiffen. He stroked his hair gently, "What?"

"Major Burns."

With a muttered oath, Hawkeye realised how careless they had been; comfort was one thing but a dishonourable discharge another. He rolled out of bed and reached for his shirt in the one smooth movement, wondering how many seconds he had. Radar stopped him.

"Oh, no, it's okay, he won't be here for six more minutes. See, he'll go to Major Houlihan's tent first then he'll go for a shower – I'm not sure why he doesn't have a shower before going to Major Houlihan's tent though."

Hawkeye gave him a certain look and toppled back onto the cot. "You may want to be quicker with the explanation next time, Radar. I nearly gave myself a coronary – one way to get out of the army, I admit, but not Plan A by any means." Radar however wasn't listening, he was staring at Hawkeye's still naked torso, another blush suffusing his skin. He tugged the blanket up to cover his own chest. Hawkeye sighed in pretended exasperation. "Don't you think it's a little late for that?"

"Oh, no, not at all and do you mind not staring at my nakedity?"

Hawkeye snorted with laughter and grabbed Radar in a fierce embrace. "Listen, I have to go before Frank arrives to single-handedly lose us this war." He tipped up Radar's chin, suddenly serious. "Will you be okay? You know where I am if you want me. Anything, Radar, understand?"

Radar hid his head against Hawkeye's chest, soaking in the comfort for a moment before pushing away. "I'll see you at breakfast, sir." Hawkeye noticed the return to formality with a twinge. He was half way to the supply door when Radar added, "Thanks, Hawk."

He smiled, nodded and disappeared just as Frank's footsteps crunched through the gravel outside.


End file.
